Your exact errors make a music that nobody hears. Your straying feet find the great dance, walking alone. And you live on a world where stumbling always leads home.
Year after year fits over your face— when there was youth, your talent was youth; later, you find your way by touch where moss redeems the stone;
and you discover where music begins before it makes any sound, far in the mountains where canyons go still as the always-falling, ever-new flakes of snow.